Victor
by DYLANFLOWER
Summary: John and Sherlock are trying their hardest in their new life as parents, and are getting closer as a result... After all, there are 3 people in 221B, and only 2 bedrooms. But when Lestrade comes to visit with some surprising information about the skeleton at the bottom of the well, Sherlock begins to wonder if Victor is really dead...
1. Chapter 1

The snuffling noise emerging from the baby monitor woke Sherlock instantly. He lifted his head and listened carefully for any further noises; sure enough, the sound of wet sniffling and increasingly heavy breathing permeated the dark, thick atmosphere of Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, and saw John breathing slowly and calmly beside him. Best to get to Rosie before she started crying and woke John.

Sherlock rose from the bed and padded out of his room as swiftly and silently as possible, closing the door behind him. Gone were the days where he worked until he collapsed, then slept for three days straight – he had responsibilities now. He had Rosie now.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Sherlock swept into the slowly-awakening toddler's room and reached straight into the wooden cot.

Building that flat-packed monstrosity had been… an experience. It was at the point when Sherlock found himself staring at approximately thirty different sized planks of identically coloured wood, and trying to match them to the a, b, c, d, or e sized planks in the instruction manual from IKEA, that Sherlock realised that perhaps his life had changed for good.

He had argued half-heartedly with John about burning the thing instead, but ultimately they had managed to struggle through without killing anyone. It was quite humiliating to be reduced to throwing an instruction manual out the window in frustration, and then sheepishly going all the way outside to pick it up and bring it back, when one was supposedly a genius. John had almost collapsed in his amusement, as Sherlock fought a smile tugging at his lips. The feeling of pride when they had observed the finished thing was surprisingly satisfying, though.

" _Hiya, baby girl. It's me."_ Sherlock whispered to the struggling Rosie, pressing her soft, warm head beneath his chin.

He had spent many hours researching how to comfort babies in preparation, and with the added experience from the past two weeks of living with a toddler, Sherlock had perfected the art of soothing her. He placed one hand on her bottom (babies found that comforting... for some reason), and one between her shoulder blades, and rocked back and forth slowly. Rosie saw his thick black curls, and smelled his clean, familiar scent, and immediately quieted down.

"What's woken you up then, sweetheart?" Sherlock cooed. He patted her nappy inquisitively, and breathed a sigh of relief, "Don't need changing then."

She turned her head so that her lips pressed against his neck, breathing heavily. Her little hand fisted in the soft collar of his pyjama top, and the other lay against his bare bicep, contracting occasionally. Sherlock had of course researched these basic reflexes, and he smiled down at her. So vulnerable still. As he looked down at her, her brow dented and her eyes screwed up.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Sherlock quickly soothed her. He knew the signs of an impending crying fit, and he did not need one of those at 3am. She always took at least half an hour to calm down afterwards, and John would hear her over the baby monitor and wake up. He lifted her in the air above him and smiled at her. An effective distraction.

"Hungry? Come on then."

Tucking her back under his chin, he made his way quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, he slotted her into the high chair, but she wriggled her legs and cried out to him.

"I can't hold you _and_ make milk at the same time, Rosie!" Sherlock explained. Not that Rosie could understand him. God, what had he become. He rolled his eyes at himself. Looking round in desperation, he spotted her teddy giraffe, and sighed in relief.

"Here, you are!" He exclaimed, picking it up and 'boop'ing her in the nose.

She let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, kicking her feet excitedly.

"Shh!" Sherlock shushed her, waiting for her developing hand-eye coordination to allow her to grasp the teddy. Eventually she managed to hold it tight enough not to drop it, allowing Sherlock to get back to making the milk.

Obviously, the ideal milk for this stage of her development was breast milk, but that was no longer an option, for obvious reasons. Sherlock's brow creased as he set about making the formula, a now well-practised recipe. He did his best but really, nothing he did would be enough to come close to replacing Mary, and it made him sad to think of Rosie when she grew old enough to question why she had two fathers and no mother.

"Da-da-da-da!" Rosie garbled delightedly, causing Sherlock to whip round to see John stumbling through the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.

The motion caused his old army t shirt to lift above his waistband, and Sherlock distractedly tore his eyes away from the tanned skin beneath.

"John, I'm fine. Go back to sleep." Sherlock insisted.

"She's my daughter, Sherlock. It's fine," John replied, "Hello darlin'!" He cooed to Rosie as she stuck her arms in the air, wanting to be picked up. "Is Uncle Sherlock making you some milk, then?" He jokingly asked her, as though she would answer. He took her gurgle as confirmation. "Ah, I see." He chuckled.

Sherlock plucked a freshly cleaned bottle from the newly-made bottle prepping station that had taken up permanent residence by the sink. It was a carefully choreographed system of washing, reusing and restocking, much like every other aspect of their new life with a toddler to care for. A military operation.

John appeared by his side with Rosie propped against his hip. "Here, I'll do it, don't worry." He said, pressing against his side and touching his hands as he reached for the bottle. Sherlock momentarily froze, before handing the warm bottle over to John so he could feed Rosie.

He blushed furiously, angry at himself for reacting in this way. It was John, who he'd known for years. They hadn't yet discussed what was happening between them, but they were definitely developing.

 _After Mary's DVD finished playing, John and Sherlock looked at eachother in silence._

" _So… Do you mind if Rosie takes my room, then? I mean… She has a changing station, a huge cot, a wardrobe, and so many toys…" John asked hesitantly after a while._

 _Sherlock smiled, and sat down beside John. The air was charged with words unspoken, but when John gently took his hand, and wordlessly put the One o Clock News on, the restlessness in Sherlock's head ceased, and he relaxed against John's side. Maybe Mary was right. They could get through this._

No more had been said on the matter, but John had moved back in to 221B with Mary's blessing, and there was no awkwardness when they climbed into the same bed each night. Even as their feet tangled under the covers, there was a calm acceptance that even though they didn't have the words, they each knew what the other felt.

"I'll just be in bed, then." Sherlock smiled at John.

John nodded and walked into the lounge. The sofa had become the 'feeding chair', because the arm rests were just the right height for resting tired arms on as Rosie's head lay against them.

When John's weight settled next to Sherlock's later that night, Sherlock shifted quietly to accommodate him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "thank you."

"Do shut up, John." Sherlock replied sleepily.

"No, Sherlock. Look at me." John said quietly.

Sherlock turned so that he faced John, his brows creased in confusion. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, stroking the arch of his cheekbone and observing the tired creases at the edges of his almond eyes. He bent down and pressed his lips slowly, gently, against Sherlock's. His eyes fell closed, and he softly breathed against Sherlock's cheek before pulling back.

"Thank you." John repeated.

Sherlock blinked up at John tiredly, before his lips slowly creased into a smile. He contentedly dipped his head back down and fell back to sleep.

Come morning, the arrival of D.I. Lestrade would disturb this gentle routine somewhat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock shifted underneath the covers, turning to face John sleepily. He breathed in deeply, relishing the smell of John's warm, tea-stained scent. He sighed contentedly.

"Morning." John murmured quietly.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John laying opposite him, watching him with a small smile. His greying hair looked golden in the morning sunlight peeping around the blackout curtains.

"Nice to wake up of our own accord for once." Sherlock smirked.

"Yeah. Rosie must have tired herself out last night. Took her ages to drop back off." John agreed.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, content. Suddenly he remembered being in this same position in the middle of last night, with John's lips pressed against his own. His eyes flew open again.

He stared at John, unable to communicate his feelings. John smiled knowingly back at him, and smoothed his small, rough hand against Sherlock's bicep which peeked above the covers.

"So…" John coughed a bit awkwardly, "was last night… Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, "It was… Good." He mumbled stiffly.

"Yeah?" John replied hopefully.

"Very good." Sherlock grinned, confident that John felt the same, "So… If I wanted to repeat… Last night…?" Sherlock left the question hanging, and he could feel the blush in his cheeks. He shut his eyes in embarrassment, and felt the blush getting worse.

John's lips pressed quickly, and somewhat chastely, to his cheekbone, where it was hot with the adrenaline of the blush. Sherlock's eyes flew open. They were acting like young teenagers, for God's sake.

"Sherlock… Have you… Ever…. Y'know -"

"- No." Sherlock butted in.

"Never? Not even… With Janine?"

"No."

John nodded slowly, seriously. "That's okay, Sherlock." He said quietly, looking into Sherlock's multi-coloured eyes.

Sherlock ducked his head, embarrassed. "Yes, John, I know it's fine." He said stiffly.

John suddenly started giggling, that same giggle that had emerged in the delighted adrenaline following their first chase round London, leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs to Baker Street.

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply, offended.

"It's just. We've not got any better at this since that first meal at Angelo's. We were so awkward then and we're just the same now. Despite everything that's happened, all these years. We're still just two fully-English idiots." John said disbelievingly.

"Now, John. You're the only idiot here." Sherlock smirked.

"Oi!" John slapped his arm jokingly. They both laughed, shoulders shaking under the covers. Unknowingly, they both moved so that they feet touched, and the laughter slowly faded. The atmosphere grew serious, as though whatever was about to happen next mattered. Truly mattered.

"John…" Sherlock said hesitantly, "Kiss me? Please?" He added nervously.

John smiled, and moved his hands up to hold his face firmly between his hands. "Yes." He breathed.

Their lips met slowly, as though they'd never done this before. And they hadn't, really. Not properly.

The pressure of John's smooth lips increased and he breathed deeply. Their noses touched. Slowly, John pulled Sherlock's bottom lip between his own, and something in Sherlock snapped. He inhaled sharply, and heat overtook his body. He gripped the nape of John's neck, wrapped his arm around his waist, and when John's tongue licked questioningly at the inside of Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock crushed himself closer, opening his mouth so that John could lick inside. Their tongues twined together like their limbs did under the covers. John's tongue pushed Sherlock's down like a fight for dominance, and it was surprisingly sexy. It was hot, it was wet, and Sherlock had never loved John Watson more intensely than in this moment.

The baby monitor crackled as Rosie's sharp cry flooded the room. John sighed regretfully against Sherlock's mouth, slowly pulling away. His lips were red and swollen, his hair riotous where Sherlock's hands had dishevelled it. Sherlock could only imagine what he looked like.

"To be continued." John said affirmatively, fondly running his fingers through Sherlock's curls, before stretching and rolling out of bed.

"I'm coming, baby!" He called to Rosie.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling above him. He breathed deeply, trying to slow his pounding heart. It had never felt like that with Janine. Nothing like that. Those cringe-worthy romantic notions of deep love and fireworks always used to make Sherlock scoff and turn his back, so it was with some internal conflict that he realised those metaphors were accurate. It did feel like that with John.

Sherlock wondered whether John and Mary used to feel like that, when they… Did things together. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the thought. All those years of longing from a distance, dreaming of this happening. But the reality was horrible, cruel because Mary was dead, and that should never have happened. Dead because of him.

When Sherlock felt tears sting his eyes, he grunted in distaste. What had he become, crying and kissing and just generally being a slave to his emotions? Mycroft would be disgusted. Sherlock was, in a small, quiet part of his consciousness, disgusted with himself, too. Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side.

John's footsteps came down the stairs heavily, obviously carrying Rosie with him. His murmuring became more distinct as he reached the foot of the stairs.

"Let's go and see Sherlock, eh?" He asked Rosie soothingly.

"Hello, Uncle Sherlock." He greeted on Rosie's behalf, waggling her hand in his direction in a poor imitation of a wave. But Rosie giggled at the pantomime, so Sherlock crooked his fingers at her and smiled, always pandering to her.

"Good morning, Rosie!" He cooed.

John swung her round in an arc before plonking her in the covers next to Sherlock.

She dragged herself closer to Sherlock so she could nestle against his chest. Sherlock automatically wrapped his arms around her small, warm body.

Just as John was crawling into bed next to them, the doorbell rang downstairs.

"Mrs Hudson's not expecting visitors, is she?" John asked.

"No, she hasn't said anything to me," He peered over his shoulder at the clock on his bedside table, "It's only 9-o-clock anyway."

"Maybe a case?" John suggested, slipping his feet into his slippers.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, shifting Rosie so she leaned against the pillow so he could get up, too. John had already started padding down the stairs to get the door.

Just as Sherlock was hurriedly smoothing down his hair in the mirror, Lestrade's gruff voice could be heard climbing the stairs.

Interesting. Must be serious if he didn't just text Sherlock.

He grabbed his dressing gown from behind the door, slipping it on and tying it firmly around his waist. He felt exposed after this morning's events with John, as though Lestrade would psychically be able to tell. While Sherlock himself could always deduce these things, he doubted Lestrade had the mental capabilities to do so.

Swinging Rosie up to rest against his hip, Sherlock went to meet John in the living room.

"Ah, Greg, what can we do for you?" He greeted him, using his first name proudly. It always made Lestrade happy that he remembered it now.

"Hi Sherlock, hello little Rosie." He greeted them, tucking Rosie under the chin with his finger.

John held his hands out for Rosie, so Sherlock transferred her over to him. With hands now free, Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to sit in John's chair opposite his own, which he sat in.

"So?" Sherlock prompted.

"It's um… It's about the skeleton we found at the bottom of the well at Musgrave."

"Yes?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. What could possibly be of interest about poor Victor's bones?

"They're… the analysis found them to be about 125 years old. As in, the little boy died 125 years ago."

There was a beat of silence.

"How? How can they be 125 years old? They're… They're Victor's. Euros told me."

"They can't be. The analysis is very accurate. We asked a professional archaeologist to take a look, and all the signs are there. They are not the bones of a boy who died 30 years ago."

 _"I am lost. Help me, brother. Save my life before my doom. I am lost without your love. Save my soul. Seek my room."_


End file.
